


No Space Of Regret

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: Complete butchering and parody of a beloved holiday tale, M/M, Wesvis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas Carol. Wesley Mitchell style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Space Of Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from this quote from Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol: “No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused.”

_"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!"_  
 _—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol_

\---

When the clock hits five, Travis lets out a whoop and throws his fist in the air. “Aw yeah, baby, we are free and clear!” He leaps up with glee and starts packing his stuff up. “This is fantastic, man, no murders or robberies so we don’t have to come in tomorrow. Are you excited? I’m excited.”

“It’s exciting,” Wes replies dully, scratching his signature on a report and placing it in his done box.

Travis pauses. “Hey, what’s with you? It’s _Christmas_. Lighten up.”

“Oh, I’m light as a feather. I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

Travis stares. “Dude. It’s _Christmas_. Well. Christmas Eve. But that means in seven hours it’s _Christmas_.”

Wes leans back. “And since I’m not a small child, I should care…why?”

Travis continues to stare a few more moments before sighing. “Wow, Scrooge, you sure know how to suck the joy out of everything.”

“Bah humbug,” Wes says dryly, rolling his eyes.

His partner huffs a sigh. “Christmas isn’t _just_ for kids, you know.”

“And what, pray tell, is it about?” Wes asks, spinning his pen in his hands.

“You know.” Travis waves a hand even as he pulls his leather jacket on. “It’s about celebrating and goodwill and spending time with your family—”

Travis’s mouth snaps shut, a mildly panicked look crossing his face. Wes’s face doesn’t change one bit, and the only indication he’s even a little affected is that his pen stops spinning.

“Well,” Wes says flatly, “spending time with family is always important.”

“Wes, man I didn’t—”

“It’s fine, Travis.” Wes sits up, goes back to his reports. “Go have fun celebrating your Christmas. I’m sure you’ll doubly enjoy it, since you have the mentality of a twelve-year old anyway.”

Travis lingers. “You aren’t going home?”

 _To what?_ Wes doesn’t ask. _To an empty hotel room and no one to share the holiday with? Because that sounds fun._

Instead he just sighs, pulling another report in front of him. “I’ll go home in a bit. I have some things I want to finish up here first.”

“Right. Okay.” And yet, Travis still lingers.

Finally, he shuffles closer, dropping a scrap of paper on the corner of Wes’s desk. “Look, man, I know you’re not into the whole Christmas thing, but there’s a party at my foster mom’s house. Starts at noon and goes all day. If you wanted to come…you could, you know, just drop in.”

Wes hardly glances at the note. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’d really like it if you showed up, man.”

“Travis. I’ll _think_ about it.”

“Right. Right, yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Travis shove his hands in his pockets, still lingering even though he has no reason to stay. The darker man opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then snaps it closed.

“Well. Okay. Night, Wes.” Travis turns to go. “Merry Christmas.”

Wes doesn’t even look up. “You too, Travis.”

Since he’s not looking, he misses it, the way Travis lingers in the doorway, watching him, how Travis opens his mouth yet again. But the words don’t come out, and after a moment, Travis shakes his head and leaves.

Wes waits until he hears the ding of the elevator before reaching over and picking up Travis’s note. He studies it for a moment, deciphering Travis’s untidy scrawl.

Then he lets out a slow breath and folds it up, sliding it into his pocket.

He’s not going to go, of course. But he thinks it means something that Travis invited him.

\---

It’s almost nine before he drags himself to bed. A few shots of whiskey down at the bar do wonders to fuzz up his mind, and it’s a nice change, really, because lord knows he’s never been fond of Christmas. This time of year is hard, it always has been, and he’s more than happy to be drunk enough not to care.

Getting ready for bed takes some doing, but he manages, eventually collapsing face-first into his pillow with a groan. His goal, hopefully, is to sleep through the next twenty-four hours. Unlikely, but one can dream.

He barely manages to crawl under the covers before he’s drifting off into an uneasy doze.

He’s not exactly sure what wakes him, only that he suddenly sits up, feeling more sober than he should. One hand goes for his gun and the other goes for the lamp.

The light clicks on and there, sitting in the chair in the corner, is a figure. A familiar figure. An impossible figure.

Wes gapes. “Paekman.”

The dead man rises, floating inches above the ground. “We-e-e-esley Mi-i-i-itchell,” his old friend intones a la every ghost movie ever, “I have co-o-o-ome to you on this ni-i-i-ight—”

Wes raises his gun. “What. The. Hell.”

Paekman sighs and drops to the ground. “Dude, really? What are you going to do, shoot me? I’m already dead.”

“I _know_.”

“If you know then put the gun away.”

Wes does not.

The Asian man rolls his eyes, coming over to the bed. Wes shrinks back against the headboard, and he makes a mental note not to drink right before bed again. Because this is…he doesn’t even know what this is. A nightmare of a dream, that’s for sure.

“So,” Paekman says, sitting on the edge of the bed. Wes is a little unnerved to see the bed dip beneath his old friend’s weight because, well, Paekman is _dead_ and dead people don’t generally affect the world around them. Tangibly, at least. “How have you been, Wes?”

“Paekman,” Wes grits out, “you’re _dead_.”

“Well, _duh_.” The other man rolls his eyes. “What, you thought the ghostly woo-woo and the floating comes naturally? Naw, this is all _super_ natural, my friend.”

Finally, Wes lowers the gun, but only because he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Then what…I’m dreaming. That’s it. I’m dreaming right now.”

Paekman makes a noise in his throat. “Eh, not really.”

“I’m _not_ dreaming?”

“Sort of? But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Wes lets out a breath, runs his hand over his face. “I repeat. What the _hell?_ ”

The other man sighs. “Wes. Dude, I’m worried about you.”

That makes Wes bristle, the way he does whenever anyone starts to act like there’s something wrong with him. “I’m _fine_.”

“You’re _not_. You’re isolating yourself and you’re just…coasting. That’s not cool.” He reaches out, nudges Wes’s knee. “Why aren’t you going to Travis’s party tomorrow?”

Unbidden, Wes’s hand goes to his chest, except he’s not wearing the jacket with the note in it anymore. “I don’t do Christmas parties.”

“And why not? Remember that one we went to, few years back? Travis drank all that eggnog and we convinced him to eat that fruitcake my aunt gave me.”

The tiniest hint of a smile quirks Wes’s lips, because he _does_ remember that night. “Travis got us back the next year, gave us rock hard cookies his niece had made. In front of her, so we had to eat them.”

“See?” Paekman nudges his knee again. “That was _fun_. Why don’t you let yourself have fun anymore, Wes?”

Wes sighs, sets his gun on the nightstand. “It isn’t the same without you, Paekman.”

“No. It wouldn’t be.” Paekman leans close, like he’s whispering a secret. “It could be _better_. All you have to do is reach out and take it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.” Paekman shakes his head sadly, leaning back. “But I always knew you were stubborn. Which is, basically, why I’m here.” He straightens up, face going stern. “Alright, listen up, you self-flagellating bastard.”

“Hey now—”

“Before the clock strikes twelve, you will be visited this night by three spirits. They will show you the way in order to better yourself, yadda yadda yadda. I didn’t memorize my speech.” Paekman waves a hand. “Basically, they’re going to show you what happens if you don’t stop being your stupid stubborn self.”

“What, like _A Christmas Carol_?” Wes asks, frowning.

“Exactly. They’ve done this a thousand times.” Paekman stands up, dusts his pants off. “Okay. You know the drill. Be nice to the spirits and don’t shoot anything, okay? They’re just here to help.”

“Paekman, wait!” Wes throws off the covers and climbs out of bed, reaching for his friend. “Why—what—I don’t understand.” There are a hundred questions in his head and he can’t seem to form any of them.

Paekman just smiles. “I told you, Wes. I’m worried about you. You’re my friend, and I want you to be as happy as you can.” He makes a pushing motion with his hands. “You won’t take the leap, so I’m just…giving you a nudge.”

He backs up, fading with each step. “Now remember what I said. Be nice.”

By the time he hits the wall, he’s gone.

Wes stands there for a few minutes, staring at the spot where his friend disappeared.

Finally he runs his hand over his face and takes a breath. _No more whiskey before bed_ , he swears, and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

\---

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he wakes up, bolting upright and groping for his gun again. By the time he’s flicked on the light, his weapon is out and pointing at the figure standing by the end of his bed.

He’s so startled he almost drops the gun. “Alex…”

His ex-wife smiles gently. “Hello, Wes.”

“You…what are you doing here?” He clambers out of bed, gun loose at his side. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine. I’m here to help you.”

“To help me? Why—”

_You will be visited this night by three spirits…_

Wes stops dead in his tracks, gun coming up again. “Don’t tell me. You’re the ghost of Christmas Past?” It’s a sarcastic snap of words, but the figure in front of him doesn’t lose her smile.

“That’s right. Well. I’m a spirit, actually. Your friend who came earlier is a ghost.”

The gun wavers in his grasp. “No, that’s not…Alex isn’t dead. I would have _known_.”

Almost surprised, she looks down at herself. “No, no, that’s not it. Your wife is _fine_ , I promise. It’s just been shown to be…easier, for you, if we come in the guise of people you love.”

“It’s rather unsettling.” Wes slowly lowers his gun again, because even if he knows this isn’t his…Alex, there’s no real way he’s going to be able to shoot her. Besides, according to the story, she’s not going to do anything to _hurt_ him.

And anyway, he’s pretty sure he’s dreaming this all up, so what’s the point of shooting her? It’s not going to make one whit of difference.

“So let me guess,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair. “You’re supposed to take me through my past Christmases and show me why I hate the holidays, am I right?”

Alex’s smile turns amused. “You know how this goes.”

“I have read the book. And seen a dozen different adaptions of the story.”

“Well then.” The woman holds out her hand. “Shall we be going, then?”

Wes looks longingly back at his bed. “I don’t suppose I can just go back to sleep, huh?”

“Not quite.”

“Fine,” he sighs, slipping his hand into hers. It feels just like it used to, soft and gentle and Wes has to swallow hard. “But I’m going on record that I’m doing this under protest.”

That amused smile quirks her lips again. “Duly noted. Shall we?” She lifts her hand, makes a motion with her fingers—

And suddenly, they’re somewhere else.

Some _when_ else, he corrects as he recognizes the living room they’re standing in. The living room of the house he grew up in, a house he hasn’t lived in for decades, the one his parents sold years ago.

He releases her hand, walking around the spacious room. “So what’s this, then? My childhood?” The tree is perfectly festooned with silver and gold ornaments, elegant and classy, and every piece of garland and every bow is placed with care. Not a single decoration out of place.

Alex walks over to the armchair and sits down. “This is the start.”

“The start of what?”

This time, her smile is a little melancholy. “This is when you began to hate Christmas.”

Before he can say anything, feet pound on the stairs. “Come on, it’s Christmas!” a young voice chirps, followed seconds later by a tow-headed little boy. _Himself_ , at six years old, and Wes steps out of the way to let the child run past.

His mother follows moments behind the boy, twenty years younger than the last time he saw her, and even at eight in the morning she’s wearing her pearls. “Now Wesley,” she admonishes, sitting in the other armchair, “one at a time. And don’t make a mess with the wrapping paper.”

Wesley—Wes can’t think of the boy as ‘Wes’, he was always ‘Wesley’ as a child, his parents refused to call him anything else—looks up, present in hand. “What about dad?”

His mother smiles thinly, bringing her coffee mug to her lips. “Your father had to work. But I’m here, so we can start.”

“Oh.” The boy lowers the present, face falling. “I made him something.”

“And I’m sure it’s lovely, dear. Now, let’s get going with this, mother has a phone call to make in an hour.”

Wes stands there, watching the dejected little boy he used to be slowly pick up a present, and his chest feels tight. Clenching his jaw, he stalks over to where Alex is sitting. “We’re done here.”

Alex looks up, eyes hooded. “Are you sure? He hasn’t even opened his present.”

Wes doesn’t look at the boy, doesn’t look at _himself_. “We’re _done_ ,” he snaps, grabbing her hand.

There’s a lurch, like stepping onto the moving sidewalks at the airport, and the scene changes. Same living room, same child, but this time his mother isn’t in the room and Wesley is a little bit older.

And Wes remembers this, remembers sitting in the living room listlessly opening presents because both his parents were working, because they couldn’t take even a moment out of their busy schedules to spend some time with their son. And it hurts. It hurt then and it hurts now, an ache in his chest he thought he got over a long time ago but it’s rising up, and it turns out he didn’t get rid of it at all, he just buried it so deep he didn’t have to feel it.

Wes squeezes Alex’s hand and the scene changes again. He’s ten, sitting in the empty living room, staring at the single present in his lap. _Squeeze_ and he’s thirteen, and not a single present under the tree. _Squeeze_ and he’s sixteen, and this year they didn’t even bother to put up decorations, and Wes didn’t bother because he stopped caring a long time ago.

Wes closes his eyes. “ _Stop_ it. I’ve seen enough.” He knows why he doesn’t like Christmas, he doesn’t need this all dredged up again.

A soft hand touches his cheek. He opens his eyes and Alex is there, smiling at him with such sympathy he wants to cry.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” she murmurs. “There were good times too, weren’t there?”

And the scene around them changes again. This time the living room is the house he shared with Alex, the real Alex, and he’s shyly passing a red velvet box to his wife. Their first Christmas together, he bought her a bracelet, a beautiful diamond overindulgence he’d spent the next six months paying off, but it was worth it to see the way her eyes lit up.

“It was good for a while,” Wes admits softly to the spirit. “But it didn’t last. It never does.” They’d had a few good years while he was a lawyer, but then Anthony happened and he wasn’t a lawyer anymore.

And after that, well, they were drifting, and spending Christmas together got harder and harder each year. They’d smile through the office Christmas parties and stiffly exchange gifts in the morning, but it got to the point that Alex would spend the afternoon with her friends from work and Wes would happily go out with Paekman and Travis.

The scene shifts again, a crowded living room full of people he never knew in the home of a foster mother he doesn’t remember. He can see himself, and Paekman and Travis, laughing in the corner over…he can’t even remember anymore.

It seems strange, watching himself being so _happy_. Wes hasn’t felt that happy and carefree in a long time, and it hurts. A bone-deep ache that makes him close his eyes and turn his head.

“Stop,” he murmurs, and it’s not begging, but it’s more than a mere request. “Please.”

Another lurch, and when he opens his eyes he’s back in his hotel room.

He lets go of Alex’s hand and sits heavily on the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “What was that supposed to do?” he snarls, angry now that they’re not staring at his vulnerabilities anymore.

Alex sits at his side, and he resists the urge to shuffle away from her. “It’s a memory, that’s all. A memory of the good times and the bad, so that you can understand.” She rests her hand on his arm, offering sympathy he doesn’t want.

He runs his hand over his face again. “Understand what?”

“That it’s not Christmas that’s bad. It’s the people you surround yourself with—or don’t surround yourself with—that make the holiday worthwhile.” She gently squeezes his arm. “You were always happiest when you were with the people you loved.”

He opens his mouth to rebuke her, because it’s not fair that she’s pointing out all the things that are _true_. But he looks at the spirit’s face, _Alex’s_ face, earnest and honestly trying to help, and he can’t find it in him to get upset with her.

He reaches up to cup her cheek. “Why did you chose this form?”

The continual smile turns a little sad. “Because I’m the Spirit of Christmas Past. The ones you can never have again.” She mimicks his motion, palm curved around his cheek. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Admitting it is harder than he’d like. “I do.”

“Good.” She leans up, presses a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Then you should get some sleep.”

Beneath his hands, she fades away, leaving behind only the warmth of her lips on his skin, and he closes his eyes.

\---

“Come on, sunshine.” The bed shakes like someone’s kicked it. “Up and at ‘em. I haven’t got all night.”

This time when he bolts upright, he manages to stop himself halfway for his gun. “Jonelle?” he frowns, peering at the new spirit. Then, “I don’t love Jonelle.”

The Spirit of Christmas Present, looking exactly like the M.E., in her lab coat and everything, scoffs. “Yes you do.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“Hey, no one said it had to be romantic love.” She claps her hands. “Come on, up up up, time’s a’wasting.”

Wes sighs, throwing back the covers. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to just let it go, say we did this whole thing without actually doing it?” he asks without much hope.

She scoffs. “Absolutely not, you know how this works. Now let’s get moving, I’m on a schedule here.”

Another sigh, and Wes climbs to his feet. “Fine, O Spirit, show me my Present.”

Jonelle frowns, hands on her hips. “You know, I don’t think I appreciate the sarcasm.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Wes rolls his eyes. “I’m being dragged on a trip I certainly didn’t ask for by people I know, but overall I think I’m having an incredibly strange dream. You’re right, there’s nothing to be sarcastic about. I’ll try to keep it in check.”

“See that you do.” She holds out her hand—gloved, he notes—and beckons impatiently. “I’m serious about the schedule, Wes. You’re not the only sad schmuck I have to teach a lesson to. Let’s get a move on.”

He glowers at her, but, knowing there’s no escape, takes her hand, appreciative of the gloves.

As soon he’s got a grip, Jonelle snaps her fingers, and the world swirls around them. As soon as the dizzying whirl of colors and lights stops, they’re in a very familiar place: the restaurant on the top floor of the Hotel Palatian.

“This is my Present?” Wes asks, looking around at the high windows with their brilliant views of downtown LA.

“Yup,” Jonelle says, dropping his hand. She tucks her hands into her pockets, wandering through the tables full of crowded diners. “Well, sort of. I skipped ahead a few hours. This is Christmas night.”

Wes looks around again, this time a bit more dubiously. “I don’t think I’ll be dining here tomorrow night.”

“Oh, Wes.” She gives him a pitying look. “Don’t you remember how the story goes? I don’t show you your Present until I’ve shown you everyone around you.”

Wes gets a sinking feeling. “I don’t think—”

“Oh, and here’s the guest of honor now!” The Spirit claps her hands, pointing to a table in the far corner.

He doesn’t want to look, somehow knowing what he’s going to see, but his eyes follow her pointing.

Alex sits on one side of the table, in the black dress that shows off her incredible legs. She’s got a ruby necklace and new earrings and she’s smiling in a way he hasn’t seen in a long time. 

And on the other side of the table is…a man. A stranger with dark hair and dancing green eyes, watching her with warmth and passion.

Wes swallows. “Who is he?”

Jonelle plops down at an empty table, happily confiscating the bread. No one seems to notice. “His name is Mark. He’s a doctor. They met a few months ago.”

Wes rubs his hands together, somehow unable to take his eyes away from the brilliant smile on his wife—ex-wife’s face. “I didn’t…know she was dating.”

“Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been much of a surprise.” Jonelle points at him with a piece of bread. “It’s been almost two years. Did you think she’d never find someone else?”

“I—” He’d what? Hoped she wouldn’t? That she’d forgive him and take him back? Maybe, somewhere deep down, but that wasn’t it. He didn’t want her to move on because then _he_ would have to move on, and moving on meant admitting he’d failed so badly. And _that_ was…

He rubs his hands together, finally tearing his eyes away. “Can we just move on already?”

The Spirit rolls her eyes, finishing off her piece of bread as she stands. “Fine, let’s go.” Snatching up his hand, she snaps her fingers. Another swirl of color and light and they’re standing on the deck of a cruise ship floating on Caribbean blue waters.

“Ooh, Christmas cruise, very nice,” Jonelle says approvingly, looking around.

Wes doesn’t need to know who they’re watching; his mother is lying on a lounge chair, phone in hand. His father is nowhere in sight, which means he’s probably holed up in the cabin on his computer. If he came at all.

“It’s probably a business cruise,” he mutters, crossing his arms.

Jonelle shrugs. “Well, for some, that _is_ pleasure. Maybe your parents enjoy working.”

“To the detriment of everyone else,” he grumbles, not meaning to sound so bitter.

She gives him a long look before taking his hand again, a little more gently this time. “I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s go to your partner!”

If there’s one thing he wants to see less than his parents on Christmas, it’s Travis. “No, I don’t—”

Too late, the world is spinning and twisting, and they land in the corner of a crowded kitchen. Money is there, pouring beer, and Travis is there too, checking his phone.

“You alright, bro?” Money asks, loading up.

Travis looks up, gives a half-sincere smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The big Samoan man points at him. “You’re waitin’ for your tightass partner of yours to call, aren’t you?”

“ ‘Cuz that’ll happen,” Travis laughs, setting his phone down. Wes feels a pang in his chest. “Actually, I was thinking of calling him, inviting him over.”

“You should!” For a man who’s never been much of a fan of Wes’s, Money sure sounds excited at the prospect of Wes coming by. “The more the merrier! You know how Mama loves company.”

“Yeah.” Travis smiles down at his phone, a little melancholy. “We’ll see.” 

“Well.” Money makes a move like he’s going to pat Travis’s shoulder, but, laden down as he is, he settles for bumping him in the arm instead. “Come out when you’re done.”

“You know it.”

Money leaves, and then it’s just Travis in the kitchen, accompanied by two invisible guests.

It makes Wes’s throat tight, the look on Travis’s face. He’s never seen his partner look so bittersweet. He can’t help moving around so he can see the screen of Travis’s phone. Sure enough, his contact page is up, Travis’s thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button.

Wes waits, wanting, somehow, for Travis to push that button, even though he knows his partner won’t. Sure enough, after a minute Travis sighs and clears the screen, shoving the phone back in his pocket. Wes feels another pang in his chest, and he steps back as Travis gets up, even though he’s not actually here and Travis would probably just walk right through him.

“He probably wouldn’t even want to come,” the darker man mutters as he leaves, and Wes doesn’t know what hurts more: that Travis _wants_ him here but didn’t call, or that Travis is right and Wes probably wouldn’t have come even with a call.

“Hmm,” Jonelle hums around a candy cane, coming up behind Wes’s shoulder. “Drama. Fun.”

“It’s really not,” Wes says tightly, turning away from the doorway so he doesn’t have to see Travis moving through the crowd. He sighs. “I suppose this is when you show me my Christmas?”

“Ding ding,” the brunette says cheerfully. “Let’s do this.”

Colors and lights spin and Wes really wishes there was another way of doing this. He much preferred Alex’s way of doing things, a seamless step between places and times.

Shaking off the disorientation, Wes looks around, finding himself in the precinct. And sitting at his desk, hunched over a report, is himself.

It’s a bit more surreal seeing this, because it isn’t like watching with Alex. That was himself, yes, but a past version. This is the current version of himself, the version of himself that’s going to wake up tomorrow and drag himself to work because he has nothing better to do. And it sucks to realize _this_ is how lonely and closed-off he is, that even when he’s been invited somewhere, he’d prefer to be alone.

“I spend the whole day here?” he asks, watching as he signs a report and grabs another one without even looking.

“Pretty much,” Jonelle says, lounging in Travis’s desk chair like she belongs there. She still had the candy cane she stole from Travis’s party. “You lounge around your hotel room for an hour and a half before you finally decide to come in. You don’t leave until, oh, about four, and after that you go, alone, to dinner, and then you go, alone, to the bar and have a few drinks before you go to bed, alone. Note the continuing theme here.”

He rubs his hands together, feeling embarrassed for something that hasn’t even happened yet. “I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he protests weakly.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Jonelle says snidely, “I’m sure you were boatloads of fun.” She leans forward. “Admit it, Wes. The only times you had fun at Christmas was when you were with people. But now you spend the entire day alone, because, what, you don’t think you deserve it?”

The statement feels too much like what Dr. Ryan said at their first session. It hits too close to home and Wes has to look away.

“I’m going to be harsh because you need it,” Jonelle continues, because lucky him, he can’t get away from this. “There are people who would be happy to spend Christmas with you. The only problem here is you, Wes. And you’re the only one who can change things.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “I’ve seen the movie, I know how this goes.”

“Do you?” She sits back, propping her feet on the corner of Travis’s desk. “Good. Then I’m sure you’ll jump right onto changing your ways, won’t you?”

Wes grits his teeth and pumps hand sanitizer into his palm. The other version of himself doesn’t even notice, and for dream sanitizer, it sure feels real enough.

After a minute of silence, Jonelle sighs. “Well. Alright then. Back to bed for you.”

Another snap of her fingers, another nauseating swirl of colors, and they’re back in Wes’s hotel room.

“Think about what I said, Wes,” the spirit says, pointing at him. “We’re not trying to be subtle and sneaky here.”

“No, you are not,” Wes chuckles, sitting on the bed. 

“Then pay attention.” She checks her watch. “Well, I’ve got another appointment, so toodles. And remember what I said!” She disappears on the last word, leaving behind the faint smell of disinfectant.

Wes groans and flops back on the bed.

\---

He’s getting better at this. This time he doesn’t even reach for his gun when the humming wakes him. His eyes snap open and he peers around the room to find the next spirit.

There’s a little girl with dark hair and green eyes sitting at the desk, humming and kicking her feet. When she sees he’s awake, she jumps up. “Oh goody, we can get started!”

He stares. “Who are you?”

Jumping down from the chair, she gives a little twirl, cute red skirt flaring out. “I’m Rebecca. But everyone calls me Becca.”

“Becca,” Wes repeats dumbly. “And you’re…someone I love?” Spirit of Christmas Future, so… “Someone I _will_ love?”

The girl skips up beside the bed. “Maybe. It depends.”

“On what?”

The smile she gives him is enigmatic and should not belong on the face of a ten-year-old. “On what you decide to do.” She holds out her hand. “Shall we?”

This feels so much stranger than either of the trips with Alex or Jonelle, but he slides his hand in hers and stands up.

Becca hums, skipping to the door, trailing Wes along in her wake. Wes opens his mouth, because if they’re going to go out in the hall he’d like a robe or something, even if no one else can see him, but before he can say a word she throws open the door and steps through.

On the other side of the door is not the hallway. It is, instead, a cheery little living room, with a wall of bookshelves on one side and a crackling fire in the fireplace. There’s a Christmas tree and presents underneath, some of them wrapped with pinpoint precision, some of them a little sloppier. There are pictures on the mantel, but they’re blurred, and even when he squints, he can’t quite make them out.

Wes instantly feels comfortable in this living room, and it makes him wary.

“Where are we?”

Becca leads him to the overstuffed armchair, pushing him into it. “Someplace special,” she chirps, dancing over to the bookshelf. Wes stays where she put him, watching her grab two photo albums and dance back over.

Without warning, she climbs right into his lap, settling down like she belongs. Wes is too startled to do much but make a sound of surprise, and by the time he gathers his wits about himself she’s made herself comfortable and spread the albums on her lap.

One of the photo albums is red, and has a child-drawn smiley face on it. The other is dark grey, and the picture is a cartoonish skull.

“Which one should we do first?” Becca asks brightly.

“We should do the red one,” Wes says, because he remembers the story and he doesn’t want to look at anything with skulls on it when the Spirit of Christmas Future is sitting in his lap.

“Let’s do the grey one!” she exclaims, shoving the red one to the side. Wes, who has quickly realized he really has no say in these matters, sighs and helps her open it.

“This,” Becca says, turning the page, “is your future. A future. The one you’ll have if you keep going like you are.”

The first picture is Wes, sitting at his desk at the empty station, working. The date underneath the picture is for one year hence. She turns the page and there he is again, another year gone and still at his desk. More pages turn and it’s the same scene, over and over: Wes, sitting alone at his desk, doing paperwork. The desk changes, the room changes, the man in the photos slowly gets older, but it’s the same thing, on and on and on.

“Where’s Travis?” he asks, touching the face in the photo. Twenty years, and he has grey in his hair and lines on his face, still bent over his desk. The desk is in an office, maybe a captain’s office, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still working on Christmas.

“Travis is out,” Becca says, continuing to turn pages. “Having fun. Enjoying himself. He asked you to come for a long time, but eventually he stopped. I guess you made it clear you didn’t want to come.”

The photographs continue, years and years of loneliness captured in singular images, until abruptly the images stop. Wes sits up.

“What’s this? Why are the pages blank?”

“Oh. Well.” Becca snaps the book closed, giving him that enigmatic smile again. “We don’t want to get too far ahead. Spoilers, you know.”

Wes stares at her. “Aren’t you supposed to show me dead and buried, with no one at my grave to show how heartless and alone I really am?”

Her little face morphs into shock. “That’s so mean! Why would I do that?”

 _Because that’s what happened in the original story,_ he almost says, but bites his tongue. “You know what, nevermind. What’s in the red book?”

“Oh, this one’s my favorite.” Switching gears the way small children do, Becca shoves the grey album into the corner of the chair and drags the red album onto her lap. “These are the happy pictures. This is what happens if you say yes.”

“Yes to what?” he asks, but the question is answered the moment the page falls open.

The first picture isn’t from one year. It’s from tomorrow. This year. It’s him and Travis, standing in the same kitchen he visited with Jonelle. Travis has a bright, pleased grin on his face and Wes looks a little awkward but he’s smiling.

The next picture is a different room, a different party, but Travis is still smiling, arm slung around Wes’s shoulder, and Wes looks more comfortable, a little more relaxed.

Another party. Travis is talking to someone and Wes is drinking and watching his partner with fondness in his eyes.

Four years down the road. A kiss under the mistletoe, and neither of them look surprised.

Five years. Sitting in front of a tiny Christmas tree, Wes holding up the ugliest Christmas sweater, Travis nearly busting a gut laughing.

Seven years. Exchanging presents, and gold bands on their fingers shine.

Ten years, and there’s a baby between them, crawling on the floor and chewing on a stuffed giraffe, and Wes aches at the look on his own face.

Thirteen years, and the baby has grown, a toddler with dark hair and bright green eyes, laughing brightly in Travis’s arms, and Wes looks sharply at the girl in his lap.

“You—”

She shrugs, gently closing the album. “Like you said. I’m someone you could love, in the future.” She hops out of his lap, leaving the two photo albums behind, and does a little spin. “Do you understand now?”

Wes looks at the albums in his lap, hands splayed over the covers. Then he looks around the living room, at the cheery fireplace and the blurred pictures on the mantel, and he knows now why he feels so comfortable. Because this is his living room, the one he’s seen in the red album. A living room he shares with Travis.

He swallows, looks down at the albums in his lap. “Now what?”

“Now?” Becca twirls again, hands above her head like a ballerina. “Now you make a choice.”

He laughs helplessly. “It doesn’t seem like much of a choice, does it?”

“Well, maybe.” She starts turning in the other direction, skirt flaring delicately out. “It depends on what you want, and whether you’re brave enough to take it.”

“But what if…” Wes swallows, bringing his head up to look at the girl. She’s the Spirit of Christmas Future, she should have all the answers. “What if I take the chance, and it doesn’t end up like this? There’s so many ways this could end.”

She stops twirling, staring at him solemnly. “Well, that’s a choice too. But you’ll never know if you don’t take the chance.”

Somewhere, a clock starts ringing, loud echoing booms he can feel in his chest. Becca looks up towards the ceiling, a beatific smile crossing her face. “Oh, it’s time. Merry Christmas.”

Wes looks at his watch. The readout says 12 AM.

_Before the clock strikes twelve, you will be visited by three spirits…_

Wes lets out a weary chuckle, leaning back in the chair. “So that’s it? You show me a bunch of photographs and tell me to make my choice?”

Becca pauses in taking the albums away, blinking at him with wide, bright eyes. “What else would there be? We can’t _make_ you do anything. The choice is all you get. We just…lay the groundwork for you to make it.” She carries the albums back to the bookshelf, tucking them neatly away. When she returns, she has a blanket in her arms.

“What are you—”

“Now you need to sleep,” she says, in the most admonishing tone he’s ever heard a ten-year-old make. “Let everything, what’s the word, _percolate_. And then, in the morning, you get to decide.” She tucks the blanket around his shoulders, crawling up onto his lap to reach. “Now close your eyes.”

Wes sighs and does what she asks. Almost immediately, he feels the gentle tug of sleep pulling him under.

Right as he drifts off, he feels small, warm lips press against his forehead, and a soft voice whispers, “Good night, daddy.”

\---

He wakes to the sound of his alarm, blinkly dumbly at the ceiling. The dream…well. The dream sticks in his mind, clearer than any other dream he’s ever had.

(Well, maybe not _every_ other dream, but those ones are a bit more X-rated than he’d like to admit, so…)

Groaning, he sits up, turning off the alarm. Then he stares at the clock.

Instead of 7 AM, the time his alarm is supposed to go off, the red LED reads 10 AM.

“Huh.”

It’s been a long time since he’s slept in so late. He decides to blame it on last night’s whiskey and the draining effects of that dream. Because seriously, what the hell? He makes sure to avoid Christmas movies during this time of year, so why would his brain throw up _A Christmas Carol_ at him?

Shaking his head, he pushes it aside and starts to get ready. He’s got nowhere to be, but he gets dressed and brushes his teeth anyway. There’s nothing but Christmas specials on TV, so after ten minutes of _that_ he turns the device off and picks up a book.

The book doesn’t hold his interest. He keeps getting distracted, poking at the dream like a kid worrying a loose tooth. It’s _nothing_ , just wishful thinking and uncertain fears, but it resonates. A lot more than he thought it would. And try as he might, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Eventually, he drops the book, gets up, and goes to his closet. Digging into the pocket of yesterday’s jacket, he pulls out the note Travis left him, staring at the scrawled address.

The party starts at noon, and it’s…11.30. He could make it with plenty of time to spare. If he wanted to.

Wait a minute, it’s been an hour and a half since he woke…why does that…?

 _“You lounge around your hotel room for an hour and a half before you finally decide to come in,”_ Jonelle had said in his dream. Wes stares at the clock, fingers tightening around the paper in his hand.

A choice. That’s what he gets. A choice between a red future or a grey one.

Frowning, Wes smoothes out the paper, eyes tracing the scrawling script.

A choice. Everything leads up to a choice. He’ll probably get a thousand choices in the future, but this one…this one might be important.

Or maybe it’s not. He’ll never know.

Wes takes a breath.

\---

Travis’s face is complete shock when he opens the door. “Wes! I didn’t think you’d come!”

Immediately, Wes feels like this is a huge mistake. He looks down at his shoes. “I…you…you said I could come.”

He doesn’t see Travis’s face shift, but he hears it in his voice. “No, no, I mean, yeah, it’s great that you’re here, I’m glad. I just thought…” The other man takes a breath, waving it aside. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Come on in.” He steps aside, holding the door open.

Hesitantly, Wes steps inside, following his partner into the house.

“We’ve only just started, so it’s not super crazy yet. Let me introduce you to some people. Oh, mama!” Travis grabs Wes’s arm and drags him through the throng (leaving much to be desired in Travis’s definition of ‘not crazy’, because the place is _full_ of people), steering him towards a tiny woman with flame-red hair. “Mama, this is my partner, Wes. Wes, this is my mama, Madeline.”

“One of many,” Madeline laughs, patting Travis on the cheek, and Wes smiles a little. As Travis continues to drag him around, introducing him to people he thinks Wes should know, Wes can’t help but think of his dream, and the red photo album.

He looks at the hand on his arm and smiles for an entirely different reason.

Not a future for certain. But definitely possible. And a thousand times more probable than it had been twenty-four hours ago.

Wes quirks his lips and mutters under his breath, “And God bless us, everyone.”

Travis glances over. “What?”

“Nothing.” Wes waves a hand dismissively. “I watched _A Christmas Carol_ last night.”

“Oh.” Travis steers them towards the kitchen, where people are emerging with food. “Was it the Muppets version? That one’s the best.”

Wes thinks of a red photo album, and a dozen and more future Christmases spent with this man by his side, and he laughs.

The future seems bright indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in less than twenty-four hours, something I did not actually think I could do. There is very little editing or proofing done, so please forgive any mistakes.


End file.
